The Art of Forgiveness

I listen to ghosts who hide in closets
Forgiveness is an art and I have not mastered it
I search for resolution but it is elusive
It is gossamer like – floating – always just beyond
My reach. Instead I fix my eyes firmly on old wounds

I am sick with the stench of martyrdom
I cannot stand what I have become
Anger is a special guest on my inner talk show
Midnight – last night – I reached into the dark
Grasping at shadows and listening to

The irregular beat of my heart – like some convict
Pounding on prison walls. I want to set it free
My shell is mangled. There is no way they
Can put me back together again. My inner landscape
Grows silent as I dwell on that same old calamity

My tiny world was struck by lighting
Insecurity intruding – devilish and devious-
Into the whirlpool of the mind. Into the rocky remains
Of my brain. The war within has lingered on
For so long that it has grown tedious.